7.04 / April 2012

Why I Don’t Say Hello In the Grocery

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_4/Zimra.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″]

Micropsia, for one. Although, I question the syntax. It is a disorder of perception. Distance. An atmospheric swell where objects become remote, shrinking in size. Humans appear like mice, far away, scurrying. I am trapped in a glacial space, standing tall, holding the cart.

My child goes to the dentist. Five years without fluoridated water and I am still thinking about an email where someone casually asked me,

“How are you?”

My child is compliant. A needle in the gums. An hour in the chair. A molar extracted. A drill hums with a fixed drone and I only think of those that have been tortured with similar devices. Were they compliant? Victims with elbows bent and the salted dampness etching a map from the eye’s corner.

The tooth is put in a plastic box and my child chooses a purple balloon. The dog is afraid of balloons.

 


Hedy Zimra lives in Providence, Rhode Island with her husband and three nomadic children. She has the best poetry students ever.
7.04 / April 2012

MORE FROM THIS ISSUE